Safe
by Aronim
Summary: Just one last night. Then Mike can take his money and leave the nightmare behind and never, ever have to look at that place again. Right?


_I don't own FNaF. It just haunts my dreams and waking hours._

* * *

 **Safe**

The heavy steel door slammed down with a heavy, comforting clunk, cutting off the low, groaning laughter and the clanking of pans and pots. With his heart hammering in his chest, Mike turned to the door on the left, ears straining for any hint of the soft sound of padded feet or the heavy clanks of exposed metal against tiles. He reached for the light switch, feeling like he'd done as a kid when he feared something would reach out from the beneath his bed or from the old, yawning closet beside the bed. Back then the fear had been eased by his parents' assurances that they were just down the hall and that monsters weren't real.

Here, alone in the dark restaurant, where every sound in the halls made him tense up and every shifting shadow made his heart skip a beat, he felt full-blown terror, knowing with terrible certainty that his parents were wrong and that the monsters were out to get him. It had happened more than once that he'd felt moldy, moist fabric against his arm and only barely managed to yank his hand to the door control in time.

There was still a streak of red on his arm from when Bonnie had last tried to grab him. It wasn't his blood.

Yet, despite his terror, his pounding heart and head and his aching eyes, his hands were steady. The light switched on with a grating, warbling buzz, revealing the empty corridor in flickering, pale light. The corridor wasn't so scary when you saw it in the daylight, but at night, the polished checkered floor looked like squares of old bone and blood and the walls, plastered with children's drawings, looked like they had been decorated by someone deranged and obsessive rather than by a myriad of innocent children.

He let go of the switch, plunging the hallway back into darkness and pressed the right light switch. Seeing neither dirty yellow nor mottled brown, he pressed the button below the light and the door rose quietly.

He forced himself to look down at the laptop on the old desk. There was less than half an hour left, but his power was running dangerously low. With a tap he hardly had to think about, he brought up the cameras.

He felt slight relief when the rattling of pots and pans confirmed that Chica was back in the kitchen. The echo of more moaning laughter rolled down the corridor to his right and Mike clicked through the cameras almost missing Freddy by the restroom. The bear was almost invisible in the darkness. Only the outline of his round ears and the small points of lights deep in his eye sockets could be seen as he peeked out from behind the bathroom wall like someone playing hide and seek.

That was good. That gave him some breathing room

He continued cycling through the cameras, noting that the curtain was still closed on pirate cove, though it rustled in a nonexistent breeze. Chica was still banging those pots.

Then he jerked back from the screen as the camera revealed the heart-stopping sight of Bonnie's face filling the entire view of camera 2B. His white eyes seemed to have sunk into his head, leaving only pinpricks of pale light in the sockets, and something thick and reddish black ran like trails of tears from his eyes. His mouth was half-open, revealing both sets of teeth, metal and plastic in what almost seemed a silent whimper.

He flicked over to the Pirate Cove again and his heart leapt into his throat at the sight of the open, purple curtains and the sound of rapid, metallic footfalls speeding his way. But even as he felt the adrenaline rush through him, his hand was moving, pressing down on the door control. A single, panicked heartbeat later, heavy fists began hammering the closed door.

Another tap of the light revealed a shadow and Mike was surprised to see round bunny ears on the wall instead of the outline Foxy's tattered, pointy ones. After a moment it sunk in that, had he not pressed the button in response to his fear of Foxy, Bonnie would have gotten in, even though he had just checked on him.

It was the most bizarre moment of gratitude he'd ever felt.

He glanced to his right and lunged for the door button on that side, almost entirely on the hunch that he'd glimpsed something that shouldn't be there. His hand pressed down on both buttons and that door closed too, but he only saw that out of the corner of his eye, because his attention was on the large, yellow figure in the window to his office. Her bib, with the words 'Let's Eat', half-covered by dark streaks, perfectly matched her expression. Her eyes, sunken and ringed with black, seemed far more expressive than her animatronics should allow, reminding Mike of those of a starving child and they would have evoked pity if it had not been for her mouth. It was wide open, looking like she had unhinged her jaw and inside her orange, red-splattered beak were rows of teeth, more like those on a gear than anything on a living being. She could fit Mike's entire head between her teeth and he recalled the wet, crunching sounds he'd heard her make in the kitchen. The throbbing of the wound on his arm reminded him of his likely fate, should she catch him.

He let the light turn off again, hiding Chica again, and let himself fall back into the rickety office chair. With the clanging of Bonnie on the left door and Chica outside the right, there was little he could do except hope they went away before the closed doors drained the last of his power.

He swallowed and carefully kept from checking the cameras again. There was no point as long as he could hear Bonnie banging on the door and he knew that it usually lasted a bit before they wandered off again.

It was an odd pause in an otherwise frantic night. For the first time since he'd arrived, he noticed anything other than the sounds of the animatronics. His uniform clung to him, a faded, hideous, purple thing that just happened to fit him perfectly, despite it obviously being quite old, as evidenced by the fact that it had been stitched more times than was at all reasonable- It stank of sweat and a sharp tinge of urine from the first day, though those two were still almost impossible to detect over the rotting stench of the animatronics.

The fan opposite him droned, still audible over the banging and he had a sudden, violent urge to smash the useless thing, because it seemed to do absolutely nothing to help the hot, stale air of the room and he just knew it was using crucial power. He didn't though, both because he didn't dare get up and do it and because it probably did something after all. The second night, he had unplugged it and he guessed the heat and lack of proper circulation of air had done a number on him. The posters on the walls had changed, the animatronics warping into weird shapes or vanishing entirely in favor of pale, crying faces and he'd seen writing, both on the walls and across his eyes. Several times, he could have sworn he saw the animatronics right in front of his eyes, that must have been his imagination, because at that time, they were still at the stage.

The banging stopped and he pressed both lights, lifting the doors when he saw nothing outside. Then the moaning laughter sounded again, almost drowned out by the clank of metal feet on the tiles outside. His hand shot out to close the left door, before he swung over towards the right.

A brown hand reached out of the darkness and closed around his wrist and Mike screamed. The fur was wet, like it'd been soaked and nausea battled with his terror as he felt a breath of old, sour rot hit his face and saw blood ooze out from the paw. Freddy's eyes lit in the darkness and a few rays of the weak light revealed the outline of a beak and teeth just to the left of him.

Freddy wasn't fast enough though. Mike's momentum carried his hand forward, into door button and the descending door ripped Freddy's hand away from Mike's wrist, leaving it throbbing and bloodied, but whole.

Mike leapt back to the chair, shaking, tears of fright in his eyes, and closed his arms around himself as both doors began to shake under the fists of the animatronics. Then he looked at the power and the time and began counting off the seconds.

"C'mon," he whimpered. "C'mon, c'mon, this is the last night!"

The room had never seemed as small and cramped as now. He could almost reach out to both doors at the same time and it felt like the ceiling was just over his head. It felt like the room was closing in on him, like the room would crush him before the animatronics even got in. His eyes darted from one door to another and to the windows, absurdly certain that something was staring back. The glimpses he though he saw of Bonnie and Chica must have been his eyes playing tricks on him, because there was no way he could actually see the animatronics through the windows, because it was pitch black out there.

He was going to die. He'd messed up and he was going to die. Why did he even come back? He seemed to remember that he had wanted to quit and never come back but the management had threatened and cajoled and somehow convinced him to stick out the week. Just the week though and it was nearly over. It wasn't fair!

There was a sudden sound, reminding him vaguely of a computer booting down, only deeper and infinitely worse. The lights went out. The fan stopped. The doors rose with barely a sound.

Mike raised his legs to his chest and hugged them, making himself as small as he could. He closed eyes that were wet with tears. He couldn't breathe.

There were multiple pairs of footsteps as the animatronics entered the room, and if Mike hadn't already been crying from fear, his eyes would have watered from the rancid stench. He kept his eyes closed, too scared to even tremble, feeling six years old and hoping against all reason that if he couldn't see something, it couldn't see him, that if he just told himself there weren't any monsters, they wouldn't be there. Even then, the faces of the animatronics danced across the inside of his eyelids, twitching and shifting colors.

Jangling notes began playing, a tune Mike had heard once or twice before and every skipping note threatened to make Mike either pass out or start screaming. But before the tune reached its end, he heard the most wonderful, beautiful sound: Bells. Bells rang through the restaurant and before they had finished their ringing, he heard shuffling, hesitant footsteps, slowly growing fainter.

He still couldn't make himself open his eyes. He sat in the darkness and felt the shaking creep through his limbs as tears streamed down his face. He didn't notice the minutes go by, convinced that it was a trick and that the animatronics would leap at him the moment he opened his eyes.

He jumped when the light went on, seeming blinding even through his eyelids, and he only just kept from falling down from his chair. When no gory, steely hands grabbed him, he found the courage to open his eyes.

Wonderful, warm light illuminated the room and the hallways, completely unlike the stale, grey light that he had during his shift. Footsteps and low voices came drifting down to his office and he took a deep breath, only then realizing how his lungs burned. The stench of decay was gone, which made no sense, because a moment ago, it had been thick enough to taste it and the fan wasn't moving any more air now than it was before.

Mike looked at his arm and wiggled his fingers in astonishment, seeing no blood where there had been a huge smear just minutes ago.

"Morning, Mike."

Mike nearly jumped out of his chair and jerked his head to the right doorway, where his boss stood. Chambers was a short, red-faced man, always smiling man, with a shock of brown hair and a potbelly that his rumpled suit struggled to contain.

"Do you have my check?" Mike said, rising from his chair and glaring at the man, his fear turning into anger at the sight of his smiling boss.

"No manners," Chambers huffed, though his smile remained. He stuck his hand in his pocket. He added, in a tone that was just on the edge between teasing and condescending: "Maybe that's why you can't get any other job."

"Just give me my money so I can go," Mike snapped, holding one hand impatiently while loosening the buttons on his shirt with the other. He couldn't wait to change and get out of there.

Chambers handed him the creased and damp check and Mike didn't bother to hide his cringe. He looked the check over and felt as much satisfaction as he could with such a measly sum.

"See you next week," Chambers said as he turned around.

"No," Mike said flatly. Chambers stopped. "The weeks done, so am I. The contract was for five days."

Chambers looked over his shoulder. The light from the ceiling lamps hit his face oddly, making his brown eyes shine gold. Then he shrugged without concern. "Sure, Sport."

With that, Chambers left. Mike slammed his hand on the door buttons in quick succession and began changing. As he pulled off the shirt, his eyes went to the faded children's drawing on the walls. Maybe it was because he'd been on the night shift, but the drawings looked sinister, many of them featuring much too much red and on several of them, the animatronics eyes looked as black and hollow as they did on some of the cameras. And he had no idea what that thin, black thing with the mask was, but it was sure creepy, somehow managing to unsettle Mike even after the five nights of terror he'd faced.

He tossed on his jeans and shirt and put on his own shoes, which were practically falling apart. He let the uniform lie where he'd dropped it and stomped out of the room, down the hall and out the restaurant, not even glancing toward the stage as passed through the show area.

He breathed a sweet sigh of relief as he walked out into unto the empty parking lot and steered toward the bus stop. The weak, grey light and the chilly air was a gentle caress after the stuffy darkness and he felt like he was finally waking from a nightmare.

His first order of business was still getting home and crashing, maybe sleeping for a week.

He plopped down on the bench, well aware that the bus would probably be late again. He leaned his head against the plastic overhang and closed his eyes.

"Rough night?"

Mike's eyes snapped open at the words and he jerked his head to the side. Judging by the light, he'd dozed off, though not for very long.

There was a man on the other end of the bench, a thermos in one hand, a rumpled newspaper in the other. He had pale brown hair that was beginning to grey and a few day's stubble covered his chin. His eyes were dark blue and sat deep in his wrinkled face. His clothes were pale grey, some sort of guard uniform, but Mike couldn't place it. He was probably the night guard of somewhere normal and Mike felt a sting of tired resentment as he looked at the man.

"Don't worry, the bus is late," the man said pleasantly, putting down the paper and pouring steaming coffee into the cap of the thermos. Steam rose from the cup and the bitter, alluring smell of coffee spread in the morning air. "So, you look like someone ran you over. They not treating you right?"

Mike gave him a flat look.

"We night owls should stick together. you know," he man said, grinning. He sipped from the cup, then winced, before sticking out his tongue and blowing at the coffee. It seemed he'd burned his tongue. "I'm always too impatient. I'm Christopher. You?"

Put much more at ease by the man's mistake, Mike relaxed slightly.

"Mike. And I can't say they do."

"Want me to give them a good talking to?" Christopher asked amiably, injecting a little growl into his words.

Mike shook his head, expression darkening. "I doubt anything will have an effect on them. Only thing they care about is keeping the place in business."

"Huh," Christopher replied. "I think you underestimate me."

Mike waved a hand in the direction of Fazbear's, unwilling to look that way at all. "You know the stories about that place? That's where I work."

Christopher looked past him and whistled. "I guess," he said hesitantly. It sounded like he still wanted to give them a piece of his mind.

"Doesn't matter," Mike said. "This was my last shift."

"Huh." Christopher was silent for a moment. "Any of the rumors true?"

Mike hesitated. "Can't talk. It's in the contract."

That was nowhere near the real reason. He just doubted anyone would believe him. Here, in the early dawn, he had a hard time believing it himself.

"That's paranoid," Christopher replied. Then he chuckled. "I heard the boss is a real sleaze."

Mike smiled weakly, relieved at the safer, easier topic. "You got that right."

Christopher took another sip from his cup. "Oh, where are my manners. Give me a moment."

He dug into the backpack at his feet and pulled out a stack of paper cups. "You want a cup? Can't have you falling asleep before you reach your bed."

"Thanks," Mike said gratefully. The coffee smelled wonderful, nothing like the grimy sludge in Fazbears, but it was probably less concentrated as well. Which was a good thing, because then it would wake him up but not make him all jittery and completely unable to sleep.

Christopher fumbled with the cups and gave Mike a conspiratorial smile. "So, tell me about that boss off yours. You look ready for a good rant."

Mike accepted the cup gratefully and began describing the insincere smile and unflappable, uncaring attitude of his Chambers. Before long, he had launched into a long tirade about everything he hated about Fazbear's, from the food, to the ridiculous power saving policy to the creepy animatronics, though he made no mention of their nightly activities. Christopher nodded sympathetically and chipped in with bits and pieces of the irritations in his own job.

The bus arrived and they both got on, engrossed in talk that was meandering further and further from the original topic. Christopher was surprisingly easy to talk to and eventually they stumbled upon the topic of Christopher's favorite bands and old movies, both of which had a lot of overlap with Mike's, even though most of them were from before his time.

By the time the bus rustled into the center of the city, the conversation had moved on to all the crap jobs Mike had had, in fast food joints and at petrol stations.

"You should get a different kind of job. Maybe one with fewer assholes, different hours. More coffee?"

Mike held up a hand, looking out the window as the bus turned down a familiar street. "No thanks. I need to sleep, remember? And we're almost there."

"Right."

They both rose as the bus slowed and came to a stop. Mike stepped out into the slowly warming city air and looked up past the high-rises at a sky that was slowly clearing of clouds. He looked down the street, to the old building where his apartment was. Christopher looked the other way.

"Guess this is where we part. Maybe I'll see you around," Christopher said. Mike nodded, smiling and held out a hand, which Christopher grabbed and gave a firm shake.

"Thanks for the talk. See you, I guess," Mike said and turned away.

"Wait," Christopher said. Mike looked back at the older man. He was holding out a faded paper. "You forgot this."

"Oh, thanks," Mike said, accepting the paper. He yawned. "Goodnight."

Christopher smiled and held up his hand in a silent goodbye and Mike waved in reply.

As he silently walked down the street, he glanced down at the paper.

"Huh," he said thoughtfully. The paper was folded so the job section was on the outside and seeing as he was in need of a job, that was perfect. His eyes were drawn to the center of the page. That was certainly something without snotty teenagers and entitled adults and with absolutely no chance having to face a robber. Plus, he could probably sleep the hours away, so it was practically free money, even if the pay was shit. He might even be able to take a day job on top of it.

He shook off the light, oddly familiar unease he felt as when looked at the ugly animal suits, with their vacant eyes and stiff expressions. Yep, Fazbear's would be easy money.

* * *

"Yes, there have been no new incidents," the agent said into the phone as he watched Mike fumble with his keys. There was the barest hint of squirming in his stomach as he added: "Administering of Class-A amnesiacs went smoothly and the suggestion has been planted as per procedure."

He paused and listened. "Yes. Administering amnesiacs ensures the reset of the difficulty, repeated testing confirms it. We can keep this up indefinitely, provided we control the messages. We won't need more 87'ers."

He turned the thermos around in his hand, but avoided the eyes of his distorted reflection.

"Affirmative. Designating the site as safe."

He smiled just slightly as he heard the rare bit of praise from his superior. "Thank you, sir. Yes, sir."

The smile vanished again and his voice was heavy as he repeated the mantra his superior had just said: "Secure. Contain. Protect."

* * *

 _Edit: Misc. crossover seems more honest. So I put it there._

 _Well, surprise crossover. And couldn't quite decide what crossover I should put it in. Maybe a little cheap, but well, I wanted to see how this went and I don't trust the crossover category. Not that there aren't good stuff there._

 _Let me know if that is a huge mistake. And let me know what you think in general. I'd love any input, even criticism._

 _And I apologize to those that are waiting for Chasing Through Hell. This just came easier. But I will get back to that now._


End file.
